Bits and Bobs:  Christmas Edition
by San Antonio Rose
Summary: A collection of Christmas-themed one-shot shorts.
1. Entertaining Angels

A/N: These "Bits and Bobs" collections will contain most of my one-shot comment-fics from various LJ comms. Each chapter will be self-contained.

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><p>Entertaining Angels<p>

December 23, 2009

It was Castiel's turn to rent something to watch, as Dean was fighting an upper respiratory virus, Sam was in a funk, and both had agreed that there was nothing on worth watching. The three-stoplight Texas town where they'd stopped didn't have a Blockbuster, but the local video store didn't look too sketchy, so sticking his hand in his coat pocket and fingering the handful of bills Dean had given him, Castiel straightened his shoulders and went in. He'd chosen movies a time or two before with minimal instruction from Dean; he could do this.

"No," whined a female voice as he walked through the door. "They're kids' movies, and I don't like allegories."

"It's _not _an allegory!" replied another exasperated female voice. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's suppositional representational fantasy."

Castiel blinked—he'd heard that phrase before. He glanced around and saw two young women, roughly Dean and Sam's age, among the older DVDs. Curious, he made his way toward them.

"Easy for you to say," groused the first voice, which belonged to a thin red-haired woman dressed according to the latest fashion. "You're an English prof."

"That has nothing to do with it!" cried the other woman, a blonde who looked oddly like Ingrid Bergmann in _Casablanca_. "All you have to do is read the books to see the difference!"

"And anyway, the visual effects are stupid."

"They were made for TV in the '80s. They're still closer to the books than the Disney version." She caught sight of Castiel and nodded in greeting.

"No," came the stubborn reply. "I'd rather watch something else."

"Like what?"

"... I dunno..."

The English professor rolled her eyes. _Art majors_, she mouthed to Castiel. Aloud she said, "Look, why don't we make a day of it tomorrow and have our own Trilogy Tuesday?"

"No!" the red-head frowned. "Twelve hours of hobbits? Bo-ring."

The blonde was simmering now. "Fine. You've got five minutes to pick something before I make you watch _The Longest Day_ and _Patton_ back to back. And no romantic comedies unless it's got Cary Grant in or it's something like _Stardust_."

The red-head stomped off to the newer releases.

"Sister?" Castiel asked as he approached the blonde.

"Cousin," she sighed. "I get spoiled having other Inklings fans around at school who actually understand these things." She looked wistfully at the DVD set labeled _The Chronicles of Narnia_. "I have these on VHS, but I didn't think to bring 'em down with me. Guess I should have."

Castiel tilted his head and regarded her closely. "You enjoy them?"

She nodded. "Sure, the visuals are cheesy sometimes, and some of the actors are pretty over-the-top, and they did abridge _Caspian_a little too much... but there's so much deep-seated theology in the books that the new versions just don't seem to catch, and this version does. Spiritual comfort food, but no empty calories." She in turn regarded Castiel closely. "You ever seen them before?"

"No," Castiel admitted, looking at the box, "and I don't think the friends I'm with have, either. How long are they?"

"Nine hours total. Three three-parters." She paused. "Look, don't ask me how I know this... but I think your friends need to see these. Call it a hunch, call it a word from the Lord..."

Castiel looked at her sharply. "You believe in such things?"

She seemed ready to apologize, but something flickered in her eyes that sent a sudden pang of homesickness through Castiel, and she stood a bit straighter. "Yes. I do. And I'll tell you what else I believe." She placed a gentle hand on Castiel's shoulder and whispered, "'Above all shadows rides the Sun / and Stars forever dwell; / I _will not _say the Day is done / nor bid the Stars farewell.'"

Castiel took a deep breath and nodded. "Thank you."

She smiled and released him, then dug something out of the pocket of her own trench coat. "Here's something else they might like," she said, placing a small fabric bundle in his hand. It crinkled, and he opened it to find that it held several packets of tea. "Not many things better than literature and tea on a cold wet evening. Unless, of course, you add a dog and a roaring fire," she added with a twinkle.

"Dean is ill," Castiel confessed. "He doesn't normally drink tea, but I think it would help him tonight. Again, I thank you."

"Hey, you know anything about this _Stargate: Continuum_?" the red-head called.

The blonde's eyes glittered deviously. "Excuse me," she murmured to Castiel, then left.

Castiel looked again at the DVD set. He had met "Jack" Lewis once but heard him spoken of repeatedly, had heard countless redeemed souls mention this series as one that had set them on the path to salvation. Maybe this _was_what they needed, if only for the refreshment of their spirits.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he snatched the card and headed to the rental counter.

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><p>Both brothers were asleep when Castiel returned to the hotel, having finished the brisket he had brought them from across town before going to the video store. It took a call to Bobby for him to figure out how to heat plain water in the little coffee pot that was in the room, but by the time the sound and smell of popping corn roused Sam, he had succeeded in fixing a mug of tea for each of them and one for himself.<p>

"Cas?" Sam said groggily as he sat up. "What'd you bring us?"

"I believe it is called suppositional representational fantasy," Castiel replied, handing Sam the mug with Earl Grey. "Also tea."

Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow but took the mug without protest. Castiel crossed to the other bed and shook Dean's shoulder, which elicited an unintelligible groan cut off by a horrible coughing fit. Sam was halfway around Dean's bed before Castiel could call him for help, and together they got Dean propped up at an angle that eased his breathing. As soon as Dean had caught his breath, Castiel pressed the mug of tea into his hand, and Dean gulped half of it down right away.

"Yech... I can't taste a thing," Dean wheezed. "What is this?"

"Lemon tea," Castiel answered. When Dean stared at him, he continued, "You need Vitamin C, and I understand strong black tea contains a bronchiodilator as well as anti-inflammatories."

Dean blinked and looked at Sam.

"Drink it," Sam ordered. "It's good for you."

Dean grumbled and took another drink.

Satisfied, Castiel turned his attention to hooking Sam's computer up to the TV. Dean had talked Sam into installing the right kind of connector just a few weeks before.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly behind him.

"I'll live," Dean croaked.

"Cas brought popcorn. You gonna want any?"

"Nah. Thanks. Couldn't taste it anyway, and with my luck, I'd start coughing and choke." As if to prove his point, his attempt at a chuckle came out as a wheeze.

Sam's "Okay" was barely audible.

Dean's voice dropped an octave below its normal low register. "Hey. _This_ain't your fault. Okay?"

Castiel turned just in time to see Sam nod glumly and get up to go back to his own bed.

"Cas?" Dean shot the angel a meaningful look.

Castiel retrieved the bag of popcorn from the microwave and presented it to Sam. When Sam looked away, Castiel said kindly but firmly, "I do not care for popcorn. I bought it for you."

Sam looked back at Castiel, sighed, and took the popcorn bag from him. "Okay. Thanks."

Castiel smiled and handed him the TV remote as well, then put the first DVD, _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_, into the computer's DVD drive. By the time Sam got the TV turned to the right channel, Castiel had maneuvered past the opening menus and started the movie.

Castiel was still adjusting to having emotions, but no human language had a fitting word for the feeling that swept over him when the majestic French horn theme began. He very nearly burst into tears, but the theme was too short—and oddly enough, he sensed the same about Dean. When he glanced over at Dean, however, Dean had, with slight difficulty, stifled his desire to cry.

"Are you familiar with this movie, Dean?" Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged. "I think I saw it when I was nine."

"Really?" Sam asked around a mouthful of popcorn. "Where was I?"

"Asleep, probably."

Castiel took a drink of tea, savoring the variety of flavors in it before turning his attention fully to the screen. He was slightly confused as to why the story was beginning with four siblings on a train leaving London, given that the cover of the set bore a picture of the two girls riding a flying lion, but he kept his questions to himself and soon picked up where the story was headed once the eldest boy, Peter, suggested exploring the large house where they were staying. After that, at least for the next fifteen minutes or so, it seemed a straightforward fantasy adventure, so it surprised him when the youngest girl, Lucy, began crying over her siblings' refusal to believe her story and he started hearing sympathetic sniffles from Dean.

"Dude," said Sam, "are you crying?"

"Shuddup," Dean croaked. "That was _you_once upon a time."

"Like you wouldn't have gone off to have tea with a faun at that age."

"Dude, shut. up." And Dean sniffled again.

They left their banter there for the moment and kept watching... until the white-faced woman in the sleigh started offering the younger brother, Edmund, a hot drink and Turkish delight, and Sam started to squirm, more inwardly than outwardly. And then, toward the end of the first hour, there was an exchange between the brothers that sounded terribly familiar:

_"Shouldn't we be going that way," began Edmund presently, "if we're heading for the lamp-post?" He had forgotten for the moment that he must pretend never to have been in the wood before. The moment the words were out of his mouth he realized that he had given himself away. Everyone stopped; everyone stared at him._

_"So you_ were _here," Peter said, "and all the time you made out that Lucy was telling lies."_

_There was a dead silence. "Of all the poisonous little_ beasts_—" said Peter, and turned away and said no more. There seemed, indeed, no more to say, and presently the four resumed their journey; but Edmund was saying to himself, "I'll pay you all out for this, you pack of stuck-up, self-satisfied prigs."_

And then they discovered that Edmund's conversation with the White Witch had led to the faun's arrest for treason.

Dean's pain and anger at Sam's betrayal was very close to the surface now, although he had genuinely tried to forgive and move on. Castiel glanced over at him and saw more tears spilling down his fever-flushed cheeks, tears that he would never have shed if he weren't ill. And Sam looked like his guilt was trying to eat him alive. Castiel wondered whether this movie had been such a wise choice after all.

Most of the second hour was much the same, aside from piquing Castiel's curiosity about the mysterious lion Aslan. Peter's attitude and Edmund's behavior and internal dialogue continued to mirror Dean and Sam uncomfortably well, down to Peter's _"All the same, he is our brother, even if he is rather a little beast. We have to go and look for him." _Castiel sensed rather than saw the awkward look that passed between Sam and Dean at that moment.

"I loved these books as a kid," Sam confessed quietly during a part where the characters were traveling and not talking. "I never..." He sighed, unable to finish the thought.

Dean didn't respond. But toward the end of the second hour, he was gripped by a terrible coughing fit, and when Sam crawled onto his bed to support him and rub his back, he stiffened only for a moment before allowing the touch. When the fit passed, Dean was too weak to do anything but slump against Sam. They were still sitting like that at the beginning of the third hour, when the children finally met Aslan.

_"But where is the fourth child?" asked Aslan._

_"O Aslan, he has tried to betray them. He has joined the White Witch," said Mr. Beaver. And then something made Peter say,_

_"That was partly my fault, Aslan. I was angry with him and I'm sure that helped him to go wrong."_

_And Aslan said nothing either to excuse Peter or to blame him but merely stood looking at him with his great unchanging eyes. And it seemed to all of them that there was nothing to be said._

_"Please—Aslan," said Lucy, "can_ _anything be done to save Edmund?"_

_"All shall be done," said Aslan. "But it may be more difficult than any of you can imagine."_

And Dean burst into tears.

"Aw, _Dean_," whispered Sam brokenly, pulling Dean closer and letting him simply sob into his shoulder.

Dean's tears had pretty well subsided by the time Peter had to fight the werewolf, but he kept sniffling through Edmund's rescue, and he didn't move away from Sam. And then:

_When the other children woke up next morning (they had been sleeping on piles of cushions in the pavilion) the first thing they heard—from Mrs. Beaver—was that their brother had been rescued and brought into camp late last night; and was at that moment with Aslan. As soon as they had breakfasted they all went out, and there they saw Aslan and Edmund walking together in the dewy grass, apart from the rest of the court. There is no need to tell you (and no one ever heard) what Aslan was saying, but it was a conversation that Edmund never forgot. As the others drew nearer Aslan turned to meet them, bringing Edmund with him._

_"Here is your brother," he said, nudging Edmund forward, "and—there is no need to talk about what is past."_

_Edmund shook hands with each of the others and said to each of them in turn, "I'm sorry"_—and Castiel could just hear Sam whispering the same thing miserably to Dean.

"Sammy," Dean whispered back, in much the same tone as Lucy was saying _"Edmund!" _as she hugged him—a tone that held far more love and forgiveness than the word itself could easily convey. And Castiel didn't have to look to know that both brothers were crying now.

As soon as the White Witch showed up to talk to Aslan, Castiel finally understood what the English professor had meant by 'suppositional representational fantasy'—supposing there were a world wherein creatures of legend not only existed (as they did in this reality) but were the majority (as they were in Narnia), Messiah might well take the form of a great lion in that world. But he found himself distracted from the revelation by the fact that Sam and Dean kept clinging to each other and sniffling... even sobbing outright during the night scene at the Stone Table. He could feel Dean's fever climbing, and Dean's defenses seemed to fall proportionately further; Sam, too, seemed more physically and emotionally exhausted than Castiel had realized after Carthage. Neither could keep the grief and remorse bottled up any longer. And not even the happy ending and the transformation of Edmund from bratty little brother to King Edmund the Just seemed to help much, since both brothers evidently wondered whether Sam would have to echo Edmund's daring to break the Witch's wand and his resulting brush with death to end the Apocalypse and redeem himself.

As the final credits rolled, Dean shivered and mumbled, "My fault, Aslan... 'm sorry, Sammy..."

"You were only an ass," Sam replied sadly, and Castiel got the sense that he was quoting another book from the same series. "But I was a traitor."

"Still m'brother, Sasquatch."

"Jerk."

"B—_tzchoo!_" The name was cut off by a violent sneeze, and Sam wasn't able to dodge.

"GAH! Dean!"

Dean deliberately wiped his nose on Sam's shirt. Sam pretended more disgust than he actually felt. Dean grinned shakily... and suddenly the atmosphere felt much, much lighter.

_Be not forgetful to entertain strangers,_ the writer of Hebrews had admonished his audience, _for thereby some have entertained angels unawares._ But sometimes, Castiel reflected, something even greater than showing hospitality to an angel happened. Sometimes the right word from the right person made possible a miracle that no one else could recognize. And this measure of healing that Castiel could never give his friends through his own power? That was a miracle in his book.


	2. For Thou Art With Me

A/N: Fusion with _The Horse and His Boy_.

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><p>For Thou Art With Me<p>

'Twas three nights before Christmas, and Dean _had_ to get word to Dad that he was heading into a trap. Sam had been badly injured during the hunt that the brothers had just finished, but playing dead allowed them to overhear the demons' plans. Now Sam and the Impala were safe with Bobby, and Dean was on his way to Rufus Turner's cabin north of Whitefish to get the information to Dad. Rufus was helping Dad prepare for this hunt, and both of them were maintaining virtual radio silence until Dad left—not that Dad usually answered Dean's calls on the first try anyway, and it wasn't like northwestern Montana had decent cell phone reception even at the best of times.

But it had been snowing long before he got to Whitefish, and now the conditions had deteriorated to a whiteout blizzard. There was no way he'd get a cell signal through in this weather. And of course the old junker Dean had borrowed from Bobby gave out on him halfway between Whitefish and the cabin.

He had three choices: stay put, hike back to town, or keep going to the cabin. He was almost certain to freeze to death no matter what he did. But he had to get word to Dad, and only one option gave him any chance at all to do that.

So he ate, put on the hat and scarf and gloves that Sam had insisted he bring, braced himself, and got out of the car to head up the mountain.

The wind was disorienting, the snow blinding. It took a bit of shuffling for him to be able to tell when his feet were on the pavement and when they strayed over the edge of the roadway. There wasn't a steep dropoff on this part of the road, to his knowledge, but he couldn't be sure what the road ahead was like, so he knew he needed to follow the road as much as he could.

He'd gone maybe a tenth of a mile when he realized he couldn't tell when he needed to turn. His map memory was fine, but his internal compass was completely offline.

Maybe ten steps later, he sensed something in front of him, like a wall or mountainside. He couldn't see it, and it wasn't within arm's reach, but he could tell it was there. Instinctually, he turned right and kept going.

Maybe ten steps after that, he realized that whatever he was sensing was moving with him. He couldn't _hear_ anything over the wind, but he could tell that it was still there, still the same distance away at his left, moving at exactly the same speed. He wasn't sure whether to be worried or grateful.

He eventually settled on grateful when he sensed it getting closer and turned to keep his path parallel to it. He did the same when it started getting further away and when it eventually disappeared and reappeared to his right. If he stumbled or fell, overcome with the cold, he felt it get closer, and a sudden hot downdraft washed over him, warming him enough to rise and keep going once it backed away.

He lost all sense of time and distance. He let his eyes close to keep out the snow; he couldn't see where he was going anyway. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever hear anything but the wind again. But that presence was still there, still silently guiding him, silently nudging him forward even if it never touched him or made a noise that he could hear.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the blizzard died down, and Dean felt his boots crunching on gravel beneath the snow, then the paving stones of a walkway. He forced his eyes open enough to make out porch lights on a cabin, and lights on inside, but he had no clue whether he'd reached the right one. His ears were still ringing from the wind, and he wasn't sure if he had voice enough to call out.

But before he could get his bearings and summon the strength to look over at his guide, the toe of his boot caught on an uneven stone, and he faceplanted into the snow.

Another hot downdraft, a broad swath of warm wetness brushed along his cheek and ear, a gentle nudge against his shoulder...

"DEAN!"

Dad's voice.

Dean pushed himself up to his hands and knees as he heard boots pounding across the wooden porch and down the stairs. He looked up to see Dad and Rufus both running to him. But his guide's presence was gone. Suddenly sad and confused, he looked down to his right and gasped silently at what he saw.

The pawprint of a giant lion.


	3. Sing a Song of Sixpence

A/N: 7.10 spoilers implied.

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><p>Sing a Song of Sixpence<p>

It had seemed like such a simple case. Go in, gank the poltergeist, get out. Getting out was harder than they'd expected, though. The two sweet little old ladies who lived in the house, sisters who'd never married, were extremely grateful and insisted on rewarding them with coffee and cake, fussing and fretting over them even though they were (outwardly) fine and asking them all about their plans for Christmas. Dean tried to fend them off, but finally he gave up and admitted that it would be just the two of them this year since they had no one else to visit.

"All alone in the world?" asked one, sounding like it was the saddest thing ever.

Dean tried to shrug it off. "We're okay."

"Well, you'll take a pie with you, at least," said the other, walking over to the pie safe.

Dean blinked. "Pie?"

Sam finally spoke up. "No, really, that's not necessary..."

But the lady who'd offered the pie would not be deterred. "Nonsense. You can't have a proper Christmas without a fruit-mince pie!" She pulled one out and bustled over to Dean, pressing it into his hands. "There, now."

Dean grinned. "Awesome. Thanks, Miss Brewster. Hey, uh, we should get going."

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

It took another minute or two of repeated farewells and refusals to take more than the pie before they were finally able to get out the door. Then, with an exchanged look and mutual sighs of relief, they made their way back to the Impala—out of storage, now that Dean didn't see the point in hiding anymore and Sam didn't have the energy to argue—and drove back to the motel, stopping for burgers on the way.

After scarfing down his bacon cheeseburger and washing it down with a beer, Dean cut himself a slice of the pie. "Hey, Sammy, you want some?"

Sam, who was working steadily on his own hamburger, wrinkled his nose. "No, thanks."

"Dude, it's _fruit_-mince. There's no meat in this thing anywhere."

"Still doesn't sound good to me."

Dean shrugged. "Your loss." And he tucked into his slice. He slowed down after the first couple of bites, though, and he'd barely eaten half of it when he stopped.

Sam frowned. "What's wrong?"

Dean shook his head. "I dunno. Tastes funny."

Sam had a sudden flashback to Broward County. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I... I think..." But his breathing was quickly becoming rapid and labored, and one arm curled around his stomach. "Then again... gettin' dizzy... kinda nauseous."

"The burger?"

Dean shook his head and, after another few seconds of panting, bolted for the bathroom.

Sam's mind whirled as he listened to Dean being noisily sick. No, there wasn't really a reason to suspect the burger of causing food poisoning, not with it coming on this fast. Sam had eaten a burger from the same place and felt fine. But the pie tasted funny... yet there wasn't anything in the pie that could cause food poisoning. Even if the ingredients could have been suspect, the top crust was a perfect golden brown; it should have baked well enough to kill off any bacteria or parasites.

_Yeah, I don't think it's_ food _poisoning_, said Lucifer.

Sam bashed his knee against the leg of the table to shut Lucifer up and went to check on Dean, since it sounded like he'd finished vomiting. But Dean slammed the door shut before Sam could get there, and seconds later Sam heard explosions coming out Dean's other end.

By the time Dean dragged himself out of the bathroom, pale and sweating and still breathing rapidly, Sam had a clean change of clothes and a bottle of Gatorade waiting for him. Dean waved off the clothes but accepted the Gatorade as he sank down on the bed with a groan that might have contained profanity.

"I think it's the pie," Sam said as Dean gulped Gatorade between gasps for air. "I dunno what they did to it, but I don't think it's food poisoning. I'll see what I can dig up about curses someone could put in a pie."

"'Kay." Dean leaned back against the headboard, hands twitching a little.

_Hey, Sammy_, said Lucifer from the other bed, _why does the name Brewster sound familiar?_

Sam gritted his teeth and went back to the table to start researching curses.

He was still there half an hour later when Dean's breathing got worse and the muscle spasms started. Fighting panic and trying desperately to ignore Lucifer's cackling, he got Dean onto his side, but Dean's joints seemed locked, and his back and neck kept arching backward as he screamed hoarsely. The spell lasted a good two minutes, and then Dean went completely limp.

"Dean?"

"Damn," Dean croaked, "that was hellish."

And Sam knew Dean didn't say that lightly. Not anymore.

"Found anything yet?"

"Not yet," Sam replied as Lucifer started whistling "There Is a Happy Land." "You said the pie tasted funny; what did it taste like?"

Dean made an uncertain noise. "Kinda bitter. Almond-y. But there's no nuts."

Sam's eyes went wide as he put all the clues together and realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him:

_Well, dear, for a gallon of elderberry wine, I take one teaspoonful of arsenic, then add half a teaspoonful of strychnine, and then, just a_ pinch _of cyanide_.

He swore and grabbed the phone.

Dean frowned. "Dude, what..."

_"911, what is your emergency?"_

"I need an ambulance right away," Sam said, not bothering to hide the panic in his voice. "My brother's been poisoned!"

The next few hours were a whirl of activity and anguish; any touch other than Sam's sent Dean into another round of painful seizures, and the police had all kinds of questions for Sam about the pie and its origins. Sure enough, tox screens from both Dean and the pie showed that it was laced with all three of the poisons that had figured in _Arsenic and Old Lace_. And in the middle of everything, the Brewster sisters called to say that the poltergeist hadn't been banished after all.

Sam had a sudden suspicion that the problem wasn't actually a poltergeist.

"Okay, listen," he said. "I'm kinda tied up right now, but I'm gonna send someone to come get you out of the house. Until they get there, get a box of salt and pour it in a big circle on the floor. Make sure there aren't any gaps in it, okay? Then sit in the middle of it; you'll be safe there."

The sisters agreed and thanked him, and he hung up.

The officer he'd been talking to looked at him oddly. "What was that all about?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "They think they're being attacked by a poltergeist. Do you mind... 'rescuing' them?" He even made the scare quotes with his fingers.

The officer chuckled. "Nah, I think we've got enough to at least bring 'em in for questioning—I mean, 'protective custody.'" He winked.

Sam laughed. "Thank you."

As soon as the officer left, Sam made his way into the ER room where Dean was being treated. He was still in danger, especially given how much alcohol as was in his system; but the EMTs had gotten the antidotes to all three poisons into him quickly and put him on oxygen, so he was looking a little better as he looked up at Sam.

"Hey," Sam said quietly. "The Brewster sisters just called—they're still being attacked. But I don't think it's a poltergeist. If they're doing the whole _Arsenic and Old Lace_ thing, there's probably a ton of bodies buried in their basement."

Dean winced.

"Once the cops have 'em out of the house, I figure I should go take care of the remains. You gonna be okay until I get back?"

Dean shot him a thumbs-up.

"Don't you dare give up, dude. I can't—I can't lose you, too. Not again. Not now."

Dean gave him a look that spoke volumes: exhaustion, grief, depression... and love. After a moment, he flashed another thumbs-up.

"Okay. Be back in a couple of hours."

Sam drove slowly back to the Brewster house and stopped a couple of blocks before he got to it. The sisters were just leaving with the police. As soon as they were gone, Sam got out, grabbed the shovel, salt, and gas, and made his way to the back of the house, where there were doors leading down to the cellar.

The icy blast that met him when he opened the cellar door didn't surprise him. Neither did the crowd of ghosts that appeared as soon as he reached the bottom of the steps, mostly elderly men.

"Your brother took a pie," said one of them. "Is he..."

"They think he'll live," Sam replied. "We'll make sure the police take care of the Brewsters."

"They didn't even ask if we wanted to die," said another ghost.

"I know. But we'll see justice done. Can... can you let go? If not, I'll have to burn your bones."

A number of the weaker spirits did look relieved and faded out. The stronger ones, however, shook their heads.

"Been here too long, son," said the first ghost who had spoken. "But I reckon we can make your job a sight easier."

The ground shook, making the foundations tremble and the house above groan. And then a strong, icy wind rushed in through the open doors, blowing away the dirt and uncovering row upon row of neatly buried bodies in various states of decay. Sam let out a quiet, sad curse.

"That ain't all they've killed," said the first ghost, "just the ones buried here. They use wine, too, just like the movie. Far as I know, though, none of the souls that took pies and died elsewhere are here."

There was a general murmur of agreement from the other ghosts.

Sam nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

He opened the bag of salt he'd brought down, and one of the ghosts picked it up carefully and scattered the salt evenly across the graves while Sam splashed gas in a trail that would require striking only one match. Then he made his way back to the stairs.

"Thank you, son," said the first ghost. "I hope your brother makes it."

"Me, too," Sam replied. "Thanks." Then he lit the match, dropped it in the gas, and made his way out as the fire began consuming the victims' remains.

He didn't stay to keep an eye on the fire or to re-bury the remains. Whatever the cops thought, even if the house burned down, at least the bodies would be easy to find.

* * *

><p>Dean surprised everyone but Sam by pulling through, even in spite of the alcohol detox that followed hard on the heels of the other poisons' effects wearing off. His lungs had been damaged by the combination of cyanide and strychnine, so the doctors kept him in the hospital until they were sure he wasn't likely to catch pneumonia right away. There was also some slight damage to his heart and brain from the cyanide, though not enough to significantly affect his health or mental functions—provided he cut back on his drinking. Dean grumbled, but Sam gave Dean the Look, which finally convinced him to cooperate so they could finally get out of there. Sam had already poured out all of the stashes of anything stronger than beer that he could find, anyway.<p>

And shockingly, their faked insurance not only held up but also failed to trip any of the leviathans' search protocols. Sam had to wonder if God, or maybe Kali, was still looking out for them in spite of everything.

"Whatever happened to the Brewsters?" Dean asked as Sam wheeled him out to the Impala.

Sam snorted. "Weirdest copycat crime ever, dude. Their name really is Brewster, and they saw _Arsenic and Old Lace_ when it was in the theaters and never figured out why Mortimer was making such a big deal about such a great charity. They've been 'helping' people who are alone and unhappy for something like fifty years, ever since their father died and left them the house. Nobody realized they were nuts. But they confessed to the whole thing when the police questioned them."

"Victims?"

"Hundreds, by their count. There were something like fifty just in the cellar."

Dean shuddered, and Sam gently helped him into the front passenger seat before putting the wheelchair in the trunk and getting into the driver's seat. Then Sam looked at Dean for a moment.

"What?" said Dean.

"One of the ghosts said, 'They didn't even ask if we wanted to die.'"

Dean huffed. "Yeah, well, I won't lie to you, Sam. If they had, I probably woulda said yes. World doesn't know it needs saving, and revenge won't hold us for long. I probably woulda eaten that whole pie in a few minutes, made you drink their wine. Hell, as it was, I coulda given up, just let the poison take me."

"So why didn't you?"

Dean just looked at him for a moment before answering quietly, "You asked me not to."

Sam's lip trembled as he tried to come up with an adequate reply. Finally, he just pulled Dean into a tight hug and tried not to cry. And Dean held on and pretended he wasn't crying.

After a long moment, Dean sniffled and patted Sam's back. Sam took the cue and let him go, then handed him a Kleenex and looked away as Dean wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

"So what now?" Dean finally asked hoarsely.

Sam pulled himself together and started the car. "Now, big brother? You and me got a date with the Grand Canyon."

For the first time in a long time, Dean grinned.


End file.
